Being Nice
by rusalkagirl
Summary: Bass wakes up, and it is Charlie's turn to babysit him. Takes place during 2x07 - The Patriot Act.


"Miles, be nice to him," Charlie tolled, a hand on her hip and smirk on her face.

They were in the hallway – far enough from Bass that he was not in earshot, but close enough to know if something was wrong. For hours, nobody would leave his side; they even had to help him to take a piss. They, meaning Charlie. Miles wanted nothing to do with his ex-best friend's dick, and Rachel's kindness had already been stretched thin. Charlie was the middle party. Not exactly neutral, it's just that she had gotten used to helping him over the preceding weeks of travel to Willoughby. Cooking for Bass, or cleaning up after him, was pretty much on the same level as this, she convinced herself.

Miles gave a dry sigh. He looked like hell, almost worse than the dead man himself, a result of an attempt to drown in whiskey until the Matheson women came to peel him off of his bar stool with good news. "Why should I do that?"

"You know." She nodded towards the door, lowering her voice, "he's happy to see you. He said you're his best friend. And I think he would at least give you a hug after you'd been executed, then buried alive. At least give him the benefit of the doubt until the drugs wear off. You can hate him again, then."

"I'm…uh, going to go see what Rachel's doing for now, Charlie. Thank you for keeping watch," her uncle said, expression sliding from bothered to appreciative. He offered a quick embrace before staggering out of the house, fingernails irritating his stubble. Both were exhausted, Miles and her mom, and they earned a break from brewing medication and simmering in anxiety. It had been a long night. Furthermore, Gene would certainly be missing them. Couldn't have anyone become suspicious.

Charlie peeked into Bass' room; the door cracked open with a high-pitched squeak. Evidently awake, he glanced up at her, mumbling, "Stealthy, Charlie." His eyes were wild, pupils blown, and amused, the wrinkles around them creased.

"Sorry," she responded, sheepishly. She felt like she was talking to a very intelligent first grader – intimidating because you are expected to be more capable than them.

He shrugged, the blankets dipping lower on his chest. They both averted their attention to his bare skin and blushed. His was much less shameful; it ended in a giggle, parallel to Charlie's grimace. Although she did not mind helping Bass, finding him adorable – and attractive – was different.

"You should probably go back to sleep now. I'm sorry if I woke you. I just wanted to check on you after Miles went back with my mom." She pretended that she did not notice Bass' face fall at the mention of Miles leaving.

"Nooooo…." He groaned. Charlie turned her head to the side, inquisitively. "I'm hungry."

"I'll go get you something. I'm pretty sure my mom heated up some soup earlier while it was still dark out," she offered, one foot already out of the door. "Let me go pour you a bowl." Bass hummed approvingly from the bed, and continued to gaze happily up at the ceiling.

Preparing the little meal proved to be more difficult than Charlie anticipated. She could not find the utensils, nor a bowl, and the pot was heavy; she had to be careful not to spill any onto herself, because the way Bass looked, she could not waste a drop without suffering his wrath. From the other room, he was whining, hurrying her. Suddenly, she heard a boom.

She rushed back into his room, heart skipping several beats on the way. Bass was sprawled on the floor, his neck tilted and eyes blinking in muddle. A sheet was caught around his ankles, thin fabric barely covering his lower half. His bare lower half. "Charlie? I think I fell," he murmured.

She yelped. She could not have failed her only job. She could not have let him get hurt. "Are you okay?" Before he could respond, her fingers reached beneath his armpits, and she dragged him back onto his feet. He smelled like rotting earth and the ripples of sweat that would conjure on her chest while playing sports as a child. She would have to give him a bath later. Using her forearms, she slid him onto the bed again. In the same comfortable position, but higher – upright, ready for lunch. He watched her brightly, his eyes regaining their blueness despite the black of their enlarged heart. Every time Charlie spoke or moved, he would nod in agreement. She is good at this, she would have been a nurse pre-Blackout.

Once Bass became comfortable, Charlie revisited to the kitchen to bring back his soup. The plastic spoon was split with age, the bowl's shadings faded. Steadying it on his abdomen, she said, "here you go."

Bass pouted, shaking his head confusedly as the vessel. "You feed me," he demanded.

"What?" Charlie felt like her Uncle Miles, taken aback by the suggestion.

His lips scrunched together – saddened, not just defiant. "Please, Charlie? I'm hungry, but I don't feel good. I can't eat by myself. I'm sorry if you're mad because I fell. Or 'cause you saw me naked. I just forgot where you went, you were taking so long, and I wanted to look for you."

"It's okay," she interrupted, eager to stop him from…well, being so cute and so upset. It wasn't fair. With a gentle smile, she added, "I'll feed you."

He looked like he wanted to cry out with happiness, but she gathered a pool of soup onto the spoon and swirled it near his lips before he had a chance to. They sat on the bed together, inches apart, his side surged against her for support, his hand gripping her leg because it is softer than his pillow. He also wanted to tell her that – Charlie is soft, and Charlie is pretty, and Charlie is warm even if the soup is not.

Within minutes, Bass had slurped down the entire bowl, spare beads saturated down his chin, which Charlie cleaned up with the color of her shirt. "Thank you, pretty Charlie," he grinned. "Now, I am sleeeeepy again."

Chuckling lowly, she helped him to nestle in a resting position, ready for another several hours of slumber. Just as his eyes closed and his breathing appeared to slow, a signal that she could climb out of the bed and return to her chair, Bass jolted back awake. "Charlie," he repeated, a raspy whisper, "lay down with me please."

"Bass…" she opposed, stopping when he groaned.

She obliged. "Okay, but don't tell Miles."

That made him laugh for a long, long time – their chests touching and similarly colored hair swimming together. Charlie was tired, too, she realized. She was nearly asleep, holding onto the knowledge that Bass' heart was beating again and again beside her – knowing he was alive. But he had one more thing to say, alarming her slightly in her dreams.

"Charlie?"

"Yes, Bass?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Her eyelids separated, and they stared at one another, his gaze foggy but not unaware. He was pouting again, too. Charlie exhaled, his fingers flickering against her jaw. He wanted to count and touch and number every one of the freckles fifteen years out in the sun gave her. But he was so, so sleepy after all that soup. Kissing her would have to do for now.

"Charlie? Please? You're so nice to me."

Someone had to be, she thought.

"Okay," Charlie whispered, smiling centimeters away from his mouth, "but don't tell Miles."


End file.
